Chapter 42

August 2220

Day Three

They're not impressing me with their intelligence. In science fiction, the usual assumption is aliens are just monsters or else way more advanced. There's not a whole lot of invading aliens that are just kind of stupid... —Gordon Freeman, Freeman's Mind

Savages.

Filthy, horrible, violent, backwards, savages.

There were blood-raged krogan, and then there were these people. At least with Humans, one knew what one was getting into, but with these things? It was as if they were sticking their hands into a varren cage, and getting a damn thresher maw. They had bombed their world for hours, struck all of the hardened military targets they could, and even dropped their very cities on their heads, and the Saltorians had just shrugged it all off and fought as if they didn't even care. The briefing had said that they were, while violent, a religious species bordering the damn hanar in their devotion to their gods, whom had been concluded to have been the protheans given the consistencies between their stories and those of the hanar. Command had expected, at least, a militarily capable species that would either bend to their will after a show of force, or be routed by a lightning-fast war.

What they had gotten were what would happen if one bred a krogan and a drell, added in human technology, and mixed in the mystery behind the geth. The two and a half meter tall, green-scaled lizard creatures that literally took small-arms fire, point blank, to the chest, and just shrugged it all off. What did this mean for Brola Dasd, a run-of-the-mill grunt in the Batarian Army?

He wanted off this planet, he wanted out of the military, and he wanted out of the Hegemony. Fuck the Hegemony, fuck their vengeance, fuck the humans, fuck their wars, and most importantly, above all else, fuck the Saltorians and their inability to die to anything less than shotgun slugs to their fucking faces!

Fortunately for Brola, his squad - and several other squads, even - agreed. What, with the countless billions in damage in the last war with the humans, the millions dead, and the literal depopulation of all slaves in the contested territories, added on to whatever would come from this damn war, they all just wanted to be done with it all. Hell, they'd be willing to defect to the damn Alliance if it meant they wouldn't have to deal with their leaders' asinine decisions.

The only problem was they were stuck behind enemy lines. The Saltorians called this city 'Chairon', but Brola and his allies were certain that the humans would call this city 'Hell'. The only reason any of them were even alive was because they all were cowards who had ran the moment they'd heard the explosions and saw the hordes of green-scaled demons storming whichever buildings the Hegemony had claimed on the bloods of hundreds of their best soldiers; or, at least, the best that had survived the last war, and had been conscripted to fight this one.

So, deep behind the defending line of the forsaken alien city they sat, with not a single one of them really knowing what they were waiting for. They all were looking to Brola, who himself had no idea either - what in hell were they even going to do? If they stole a shuttle, how would they get out of the solar system? How would they get to the nearest relay? Where would they go from there? Brola had one idea that could potentially work, but that didn't change the fact that there were ten questions for every one answer they could provide, but at this point, none of them even cared, all they wanted was to get the hell off of this planet, and figure out the rest once they'd put a few thousand light-years between them and this damned place. All they had to do to start that exodus was to get out of what had to be the most hostile city this side of Omega.

Simple, right?

Brola gazed around, there were some dozen soldiers with him, most of them enjoying whatever sleep they could whilst he came up with whatever plan they would be using, and the others kept watch. They were hiding in the basement of what used to be a skyscraper, though now barely extended a dozen meters into the sky; how they had even escaped detection, capture, or death, was beyond them, but what mattered was that they were still alive. The problem, however, was staying alive.

Brola broke his gaze with his men and looked up, the door at the top of a narrow staircase being the key to their salvation, and simultaneously the instrument of their destruction. If they opened it and the coast was clear, they could make a break for it and run, but if something else opened it, the white-hot fury of an entire planet of demonic krogan-drell crossbreeds would be poured upon them, and they would all inevitably die. He sighed deeply, blinking his four eyes exhaustedly, racking his brain and trying to come up with something, anything he could use to get them out of this city. The way he saw it, there were two options - and both involved going through the cursed place.

Option one, they made a break for it and ran as fast as they could, as far as they could, and hoped and prayed that they made it to the batarian offensive line before they all died. This plan relied solely on their ability to sprint through a city infested with very angry alien soldiers whose smallest were as strong as a krogan battlemaster. It wouldn't be impossible, but there was a reason many soldiers were calling these people 'green krogan', they were just too fucking difficult to kill with anything smaller than anti-material weaponry, or shotguns firing armor-piercing slugs. Brola silently wondered if fire would work, but he'd already figured out that no one present's omni-tools had incinerate or flamethrowers programmed into them.

Then, of course, was the second option, which was as dangerous as the first. It had been impossible for anyone on their way in to miss the lonely skyscraper that had survived the Navy's bombardments. It looked to be big enough to reach close enough to the city's perimeter that they could make a straight shot in a minute or two, but that relied on them being able to drop it. Coincidentally, what they lacked in omni-tool weaponry, they all seemed to make up for in kinetic and explosive armaments. Brola estimated that each of them, together, had just enough to cause a structural collapse of the building, and drop the whole damn thing. Even if it didn't just fall over like a tree, as he hoped and pray it would, it would provide a smoke screen for them to make their escape, and a signal for the forces outside of the city to launch another attack, which would provide another layer of cover, and have the added bonus of leaving some shuttles unguarded. But that still meant braving the surface, and even penetrating further inward, right into the varren's den. Neither option seemed at all attractive.

"Commander." Brola's head snapped up, and he saw an engineer, the man's omni-tool aglow and an extended weapon cradled in his hands. The weapon seemed to be missing multiple sections of metal and had wires, bits, and parts of its innards exposed, giving it an almost skeletal look.

"Tagron." Brola nodded once, "what is it?" Was he seriously coming to him with 'my weapon is broken'? On an alien planet in multiple G's, where their weapons were ineffective in the first place, this engineer was coming to him, complaining about a broken weapon.

"I've been modifying my weapon, sir. I think I've… Got an idea." Tagron said, pulling up a saltorian crate and placing the weapon upon it.

Brola's eye-ridges furrowed, and he slid forward to the edge of his crate. "What have you done? It looks like you broke it."

The engineer grinned, "I made it better." He said, his four dark brown eyes seeming to shine as he sat down and got comfortable. "The humans have this concept, they call them flechettes. They're these… Small darts, they're meant to tear apart - sometimes literally - anything they hit." He turned his eyes up and saw the dull look on Brola's face. "Uh… Think of them like… Anti-material rounds. They're basically just bigger and better bullets, they hit harder and do more damage."

"Is there a point to this?"

Tagron gulped, and nodded. "Yes, sir. You see, our rounds are the size of… Grains of sand. The only reason they hit as hard as they do is because we use element zero to decrease their relative mass, and launch them forward so ungodly fast that they hit with the force of a conventional round. The problem is, what they possess in kinetic energy, they lack in penetrative power - modern armor is designed to reflect and absorb it, and if the rounds penetrate the armor, they won't enter more than a few centimeters into the body, which is why they shatter on impact - to do more damage and cause more bleeding -"

"Tagron." Brola understood the man was just doing his job, but they were in the middle of a war, and this was just excessive. "The point."

The light-voiced engineer paused, "I modified my weapon. It fires much larger rounds, and increases their mass as opposed to decreasing it. The result…" He picked up the weapon and pointed it at the wall to their left, and without further delay, pulled the trigger.

The resultant boom deafened the entire room, startling and terrifying everyone inside, including Brola and Tagron. The rifle bucked heavily from the discharge, and a small, violet cloud drifted out from the barrel. The wall the engineer shot, however, was what attracted Brola's attention: A meter-wide, crater-like depression had been blasted into it, almost looking as if a bomb had gone off. The smoldering crater soon attracted all eyes as the destructive power of the modified rifle began to dawn on everyone present.

"Think of the Kishock Harpoon rifle, but… Much more powerful. But there is a catch." Said Tagron, prompting Brola to turn to face him. "It's ripping off a flechette about an inch long and as thick as a needle, and then increasing its mass. I had to overclock the rifle's magnetic accelerator to get it up to a respectable muzzle velocity. All of this means that the rifle will heat up much… Much faster, than it used to. And then you have to consider that we're essentially tearing off small chunks of the ammo block every time we fire."

Brola caught on, "we can't fire full-auto, we have to be careful with our shots, and we can't engage in extended firefights." He nodded, "but… Will it kill saltorians?"

The engineer idly scratched at the back of his head, as he sat back down and placed the rifle back on the crate. "The problem still exists of the penetrative power. All I did was increase the kinetic energy, that's all I could do with what I have on hand. So they hit harder, yes… And they'll injure saltorians, definitely… But…" The engineer shook his head. "It will work. It won't be pretty, but it will work for what we need it to." He said, finally nodding. "We just have to be careful. Shoot for their centers of mass, check our shots, make every hit count. But… We're essentially shooting them with projectiles with the relative mass of… A skycar, at velocities of over eight hundred meters per second. So even taking into consideration how durable they are thanks to this planet's gravity, it will, at least, hurt them."

Brola nodded, a plan slowly forming in his mind. "Can you do this to everyone's weapons?"

"Give me a few hours, and anyone else with tech experience, and I can bang it out, yes."

"Then get to work." Said Brola, as he sat down to think things over.

Now he had weapons effective against the indigenous, thus, a means of escape. If he could get out of this city, and perhaps get his men to some shuttles, they could make their way to orbit and steal one of the ships the Saltorians had boarded and left crippled and empty. Even with their breached hulls, as long as they kept up a Mass Effect field they could feasibly last long enough for his 'where' idea to work. The problem, however, was twofold: Getting out of the city, and pitching the idea to his men.

Brola lifted his head and gazed around the room, looking over the fitfully sleeping men, and the trembling sedentary ones. After Tagron's display with the rifle, the room had calmed down and once again dulled down to a simple silence, only broken by the sounds of light, muted conversation, and of flowing water coming from the grated entrance in the back. Brola narrowed his eyes and planted his hands on his lap, before pushing himself to his feet. He slowly stalked over to the grate and, upon reaching it, gripped one of the dark, metal bars. He felt the weight of the metal under Saltor's intense gravity, even as it barely budged an inch as he tested its give. Were it not for his suit, he felt he wouldn't even be able to move under his own power, let alone open up the grate.

If I had to guess… He leaned forward and peered in between the bars of the grate. This is the entrance to their sewers… So we've got a much safer route out of the city, but the primary problem is that we don't know the sewer system. We could easily just pop out in the middle of the city as we could kilometers outside of it. He took a few steps back, his hands resting behind his armored back. But… It's either this, or braving the above-ground city. At least this isn't outwardly suicidal.

He turned back to face his men and loudly cleared his throat. Those who were awake heard him, and turned their gaze, heads inclined in a universal questioning glance. He nodded and told the men to wake everyone up - he had a plan. In a few minutes, everyone was awake and everyone was staring at him with hope-filled eyes.

"Alright, men. We're all here for the same reason - we don't care about the Hegemony anymore. Am I wrong?" He asked, looking everyone in their eyes, or, if they were wearing breather helmets - as he was - in their visors. Everyone nodded, affirming that they all were here because they just wanted to live to see another day, and leave the Hegemony and their misguided ideals behind. Brola pressed, "ever since Mindoir, the Hegemony has made foolish decision after foolish decision. We've seen it all unfold right before our very eyes - and I'm certain I need not remind a single one of you of the pacification of Kreglan." The first lunar colony ever founded by the batarian people, Kreglan had begun rioting almost overnight when the High Chancellor had decided to spend money on colonization efforts instead of spending that money on rebuilding the besieged eight; the result of that rioting had been military personnel being sent in to bring the entire colony under martial law, and over half a million dead in the chaos. A great many soldiers were under investigation after surveillance videos had shown many of them taking advantage of the chaos to loot or kill as they pleased.

Again, everyone nodded their heads - Kreglan was a black mark on recent Hegemony history. Many extremists were using the imagery and videos generated by the pacification as grounds for strengthening the various resistance movements, but the military still held far more power than them, and the people just wanted to return to the status quo, so they refused to start any insurrections, even if the resultant chaos and death led to better lives in the long run.

Brola nodded, "the Hegemony may not be dead, but it is wounded and it may not ever recover. Like an injured varren, it is lashing out at anything and everything. We had no sooner found these people than had we tried to remotely uplift them and force them upon our enemies, and for our leaders' decisions, we are paying the price… But alone, we cannot do anything to change this. Even if we survive and flee this planet, there would be nothing we could do to end the overarching problem." He saw a few soldiers stiffen up, they were reaching his conclusion. "Worse is that even our allies, the Council, likely lack the power to pacify the sleeping giant we have slapped in the face. Their numbers are greater than ours, their technology better than ours, but they all… Our weapons are ineffective against these people. Any kind of small-arm whose projectiles are less powerful than shotgun slugs at point blank range, or heavy weapons and vehicular cannons, they all are ineffective against these people. It's the Human-Turian war all over again, only we are the turians, and they the humans."

"Normally, comparing us to the turians would be a good thing." One soldier said, derisively.

"What would you suggest then, Commander?" A soldier asked, his light voice providing a stark contrast to Brola's average baritone.

Brola sighed, and reached up to remove his helmet. Off came the piece of armor, revealing his old war injuries. "Nothing shames me more than to admit this, but if we are to escape and if we are to protect the galaxy from these… Demons… Then we must go to the very people who brought this chaos upon us." He indicated his upper left eye, which was a pale, milky white - completely blind, thanks to a gunshot from an Alliance Marine. "My friends… My brothers. We must escape, and we must go to the Alliance, ask them - beg them if we must - to cease this nightmare. We must face fact, the Citadel Council is powerful - in all honesty, they are more powerful than the Alliance. But it is a well known fact that a great deal of the Alliance's power comes from their weapons - and I am willing to stake my life on the conclusion that a human firearm would kill a Saltorian faster than one of ours. Without any modifications." He looked at each of his men in turn, "I would not ask this of you if it were not our only chance. I will not demand that any of you do this… But think on what we have seen in the last thirty hours. Portable energy weapons that melt through tank armor in seconds, and flesh in less time than that. Lone soldiers powerful enough to put our Hunters to shame, and skilled enough to single-handedly halt the advance of dozens of our soldiers. People willing to regress back to an uncultured era of warfare in which fists and blade ruled the land.

"Our leaders have ordered us to walk up to a sleeping giant and shoot it in its leg… And the best efforts of half of our entire military might haven't even managed to make anything better than a foot-hold on this planet. These people are angry, they are powerful, but worse is that they are vengeful. They will win this war, they will push us off of their planet, and they will use our technology to learn how to leave their cradle. First they will attack the humans, and their ferocity will catch them completely by surprise, and their unique weapons and devotion to death and destruction will grant them victory. Eventually the humans will dedicate their war machine to fighting these people, leaving them open to an attack from the Citadel, and we all know the Citadel would take this opportunity.

"Caught in a war on two fronts, the humans would eventually fall. Even their SIGMAs, and you know their legends, would not be able to win this war for them. The Alliance would fall, and while the Council celebrates, the Saltorians would regroup. I do not know how fast they reproduce, but we do know they reach maturity quickly, that much they told us. So they would build their numbers and train them in war. They would steal and recover human technology, and would eventually strike the Citadel with a fusion of all three technological trees - theirs, ours, and the Alliance's. The weakened Citadel would fall inevitably, with human technology and their own backing them up, and no one even knowing from where they came, they would emerge victorious, it would only be a matter of time.

"And then would be chaos. The fall of society as we know it. Have any of you read The Darkest Day? It would be that, but instead of a krogan victory, it would be theirs. The only, possible way to prevent this is if we go to the humans… Now… And get them to head this off at the pass while the Saltorians are still anchored to their planet. So I ask you all… What is worth more? Your pride? Or the lives of literally everyone you know?" He broke his gaze with them all and hung his head. "I know some of you have wives and children. I know all of you have family of some type. Many of you even own slaves, and us going to the Alliance would end that forever… But is the pain of adapting to a new way of life too much to bear? Would you rather the galaxy burn and suffer at the hands of a primitive race? Would you be known as the monsters who doomed the galaxy, or the saviors who helped protect it?"

There was silence in the dark basement for several minutes, as everyone mulled over Brola's words. Eventually, one sighed and shook his head, leaning onto the wall and sliding down to a sitting position, resting his hands on his legs. "Fuck it." Sighed the man, "at this point, I don't care who wins. I just want the gods-damned wars to end. If I've got to side with humans to do it, then so be it."

Soon enough, another nodded his head. "My sister was executed by Hegemony officials for 'extremist intentions', after she set one of her slaves free." He nodded to the first to speak, "I'm with him. Fuck it. If we've got to change, might as well make the humans do it for us. Gods know they know how to change things."

"This is treason, but you know what? I really don't care, at this point. It's not like I'll be in jail for long, if this really happens. They'll need fighters."

Another nodded, "might not be the best solution, but it'll be better than what'll happen if we let things play out." And others eventually all voiced their affirmations - not all of them were happy about it, but they all agreed that the best way to put out this fire was to start another one. To kill one giant, they had to let another one loose.

Brola nodded, "good." He felt relieved. "So… We have a goal. Now, for the bad news… To escape this city, we need to go down there." He pointed at the grate, "their sewers are the only way we can possibly run without having to engage them in direct warfare. Fortunately, Tagron is working on enhancing our weapons, but I would much rather run and hide than stand and fight. Even better, I have a plan as to how to avoid getting lost down there…" He activated an app that let him connect to other local omni-tools within a certain distance. "If we connect to all of the omni-tools left around in the city, we could rig up a map of the city by getting them all to fire off their nav-beacons and radar pulses." He bit his tongue for a moment, but decided that the time for subtlety was over. "Given the amount of our dead, there is likely more than enough bodies to map out the city's ruins for us, giving us an instant map of the city. This won't penetrate underground, but it will at least give us a heading and a general path to follow." He explained as he fiddled with the device. "When we make our run, we'll have to move quick, but quiet. Smart and careful. It is very likely that they won't expect any kind of underground assault, but that does not mean they will not prepare for it regardless. So while we may not encounter much resistance, we must assume we will encounter some." He bit his tongue for a moment, before nodding. "But… but… They have only seen us on our feet, assaulting. They have never seen us go quiet."

"We're not Hunters, Commander. You cannot expect us to be infiltrators at the drop of a hat. We're just grunts." Derisively said one of the soldiers, shaking his head and waving his hand.

Brola nodded, "that is true. But do you know what else we are?" He received blank stares from his men, "we're batarians. Where the Citadel races got bases and functioning prothean archives, ours were ruined and we were left with scraps, and look at what we did with those scraps. Where the entire might of the Citadel Council wasn't even able to protect the Citadel itself, we are the only known race to lead multiple successful counter strikes against the Human Systems Alliance. We fought the vorcha to a standstill! We tame worlds even the krogan would fear to tread upon. If we cannot escape from one… Primitive city, then we deserve whatever hell we will find ourselves in." He said, voice emanating pride and confidence, managing to wipe away the looks of fear and trepidation in his men's eyes. "Some of us may die… But in death, we will save many more. Yes, we may not be Hunters, or SIU… But we're batarians, damn it. That is enough!"

It took six hours for the surviving batarians' rifles to get fully modified, and another two to reset the internal safeties such that they wouldn't melt prematurely due to the vast amounts of heat they produced. After equipping the surviving soldiers, they descended into the bowels of the alien city, the darkness of the sewers making their deceptively spacious environment feel all the more cripplingly enclosed. Omnitool held flashlights cut bright, pale white paths of light through the dark, humid air of the sewer, and nought but the sounds of boots clapping against the ground and the light sound of the thick sewage flowing outwards.

Though he repressed the urge to gag, Brola stared briefly at the flowing sewage, his bright light illuminating the dark green and brown substance. "It's flow. Follow it." He said, dragging his light side to side, in the direction of the flow. "It may lead us outwards." He said, bringing his omnitool to his face and checking the improvised map against the direction the sewage was flowing.

"We're following alien shit." A soldier muttered, just loud enough to be heard, but not so that his voice carried. "I will never speak of this, for as long as I live."

"Seconded." Said another, as the dozen soldiers began cautiously prowling through the sewer.

"Quiet." Said Dasd, "there are bound to be Saltorians down here." He said, his eyes briefly going down to his motion tracker as he spoke. "And we're already conspicuous enough, with these damned lights." One would think, being a species with four eyes, they would have better night vision, but there was no such luck.

The small group continued their trek for more than an hour, following the flowing sewage, slowly winding their way through the bowels of the city. When the inevitable finally occurred, halfway through their journey, they hadn't even been aware they had been followed since the moment they stepped out from under their appropriated building. Though they were no Wraiths, or even BattleVectors, the Tyyrahn that followed them had done so without being discovered until one stepped on a stone that had been jarred loose during the orbital bombardment. Stepping on it, it fell into the sewage and made a splashing noise just loud enough to be noticed by everyone present.

Brola's head snapped around so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash, and his line of sight, and similarly all of the bright beams of light, all were followed by the present batarians. The two Tyyrahn that had been revealed were already charging forward, their weapons shouldered and their helmeted faces contorted into a deep and livid rage. A few batarians cursed, and a few others fell back, but two were all that were needed to snap everyone out of it, to open fire and bring everyone's minds back to the goal at hand: Survival. The two batarians with the requisite wherewithal had their weapons shouldered and braced for their drastically increased recoil, before they pulled their triggers. The thunderous, cannon-blast-like sounds deafened everyone in the cavernous sewers, and the large, metallic flechettes from the batarian weapons roared through the air, their increased mass meaning the air itself warped around the projectiles.

The first projectile to hit the charging Saltorians slammed into them with the force of a truck going at muzzle velocity. Before it could even blink, its dense skeleton was crushed into powder and its armor was blasted to bits, the sheer kinetic energy and friction from the impact tearing his scales from his chest and sending him flying several feet through the air. The other saltorian was less fortunate, as it was hit first in the shoulder, then the throat, the former of which was completely blasted off of its body, and the latter of which was obliterated to the point that the only thing remaining of its head was a thick red paste and bits of graymetter. The saltorians had only the time to fire off a few shots from their weapons before they had been attacked, and in the time it took the still living Tyyrahn to get to his feet, the remaining batarians had recovered from their shock and had shouldered their weapons. By the time they had finished firing at him, the body, and the general area around it, looked like it had been blown to smithereens by rockets and tank shells.

After the dust settled, and it was clear that the two they had killed were the only two who would attack at this very moment, Brola cleared his throat. "If there are any more, they are falling back to re-strategize. We just introduced a variable they hadn't accounted for." He turned back to the direction they had been walking in, "we need to pick up the pace. If they slow us down, we are dead. Move!" He and the other soldiers about-faced and began sprinting through the sewers, their heavy footsteps echoing throughout the caverns and the sound of the sewage flow growing in volume as they went further and further.

After several minutes of their rapid retreat, they were finally met by the Saltorians proper, and unfortunately for them, instead of being assaulted by Tyyrahn ballistic rifles and handcannons, the saltorians had done the exact opposite of what they'd wanted and gone straight to the top: The monsters with the energy weapons. Before they could blink, upon rounding a corner three of their number had been burned to ash and a further two plus Brola were severely injured by glancing blows. The batarians ground to a halt and quickly retreated back behind the corner to safety, as one more was killed by the wrathful light of the BattleVectors.

"Suppress them!" Brola called out, his heavily burned side throbbing painfully. He looked down at it as he heard his men firing, seeing a hole the size of his thumb burned into his gut, the flesh around it charred black, the burn so bad that the wound had been cauterized all the way through and wasn't even bleeding. It hurt like hell, but at least he wasn't bleeding: He could still fight.

With a loud, pained grunt, Brola shoved off of the wall and picked up his rifle, his eyes wide as he looked at the corner around which his men were firing, and down the long, cavernous sewer through which they had come. He frowned, and when two soldiers fell back to give their rifles time to cool down, he took one of their places, and crouched down low. After a moment's pause, the Commander briefly swung around the corner and opened fire, rapidly pulling the trigger and sending the mass-affected rounds down range, blowing apart the ground and tearing apart the BattleVectors. After a few moments of intense fighting, however, he saw that the saltorians were aiming their weapons upward, at an angle, causing the ceiling to glow from the heat. After a few moments of this, instead of retreating in the face of rocket-like explosions dotting the ground, walls, and ceiling around them, and even some of their allies getting literally blown apart by the raw kinetic energy of the modified batarian weapons, they began to advance.

Damn it… Thought Brola, as he hid behind the wall again and someone else took his place, opening fire and trying to slow down the advancing Saltorians.

"I think they're melting our slugs!" Someone called out, before he retreated back to cover as his weapon overheated. "I know I shot that one guy in the chest, but the bullet never made it."

"Then shoot at their legs!" Brola responded, "hit the ground, they get hit with shrapnel. Hit their legs, they can't walk!" He said, as his rifle finished venting. "They're protecting their cores, but not their legs!" Crouched down even lower, the commander swung back around the corner and aimed his rifle down, firing at the indigenous peoples' feet.

Brola's actions had an immediate effect, as he blasted apart the ground at their feet, and the feet themselves. In seconds, the fight went from a terrified defense, with the seemingly indomitable saltorians making an impossible advance, to a quick and rapid retreat on the hands of the saltorians. As they fell back faster and faster, more and more batarians switched in and began firing, forcing the saltorians to abandon their cover fire and begin sprinting away, full-throttle. Now with nothing to block their shots, the batarian soldiers continued firing, blasting away at their enemies, turning all of them into paste and pools of blood, gore, and torn apart limbs. All of the ambushers were dead, save for one who had had his leg blown off, who managed to use his tail as an improvised limb and limp out of sight.

Now with a moment to breathe, Brola and the eight remaining survivors lowered their weapons and slowly retreated back behind their corner. Brola felt adrenaline and other endorphins pumping through his body, numbing him to the biting, stabbing pain in his stomach. He pressed a hand to his side and turned back to his men, the injuries, while severe, were few, only a few of them had gotten hit before they had gotten the hint and only fired when they knew they weren't being fired upon. Unfortunately, as he peered down the corpse-ridden sewer, Brola knew that their original strategy wasn't going to work. If they continued at this rate, they were going to all die in just two more encounters.

Brola removed his hand from his side, seeing that it came away slightly covered in blood, revealing he must have torn some of the burned and charred skin. He shook his head, standing up straight and clearing his throat. "You all won't like this."

One of the men, however, simply held up his hand. "Will it keep us alive?" He asked, breathing heavily, to Brola's tentative nod. "Then what is it?"

"If we want to survive…" Brola said, as he reached into the small pack on his armor and retrieved some bandaging for his wound, if they were going to do this, he had to make absolutely sure nothing foreign, or at least, as little as possible, got in there. "We're going to have to hide." He pointed down at the flowing sewage. "In the one place they won't think we're desperate enough to do so, in." He sighed once, as he tightened the bandages around his waist. "I understand none of you may -" Before he'd even gotten halfway through his sentence, he heard three splashes.

The commander turned to face the sewage and saw three of his men, waist-deep in alien waste. "It's not as thick as it looks, for what it's worth." One said, as he was joined by two others, while the injured stayed dry to wrap up and seal off their wounds.

"Still smells like death, though." Said another, as he retrieved a cap for his rifle, so it wouldn't be flooded by waste.

Brola shook his head and, after making sure his wounds were as sealed as they could be, he hopped into the alien waste. The commander had never been so glad that he was wearing a breather helmet as he was right now - the others had to deal with torn straps of cloth to try and shield themselves from the smell. After another minute, everyone was waist-deep in sewage, some were fighting back the urge to vomit, while others were getting it out of the way now.

"Alright… Submerge. Keep your huds on and just follow the flow. Those of you that don't have breathers, pair up with those who do. Everyone stay close…" He said, as he dipped down into the dark, greenish-brown liquid and turned around. And pray we get out of here. He thought, with a clenched jaw as he submerged himself in the sewage, and added onto that thought by praying that he wasn't covering himself in shit for no good reason.

Fifteen minutes in, they'd had to stop twice to check the area and let everyone vomit and dry-heave, but miraculously, they hadn't been caught. It seemed as if even the indomitable alien lizard hunter folk didn't think there was anyone out there desperate enough to literally swim through raw sewage in an attempt to escape. After their second stop, they noticed that the current was picking up, and they were having less to slowly wade through it in an attempt to stay submerged, and more to just try and not slip, fall, and get separated from everyone else. Eventually the current became so strong, the flow so fast, that they were all but sliding through it, the calm flow becoming something of a raging rapid, as they were drawn out of the sewers and towards wherever it was that they dumped it all.

"Everybody brace, I think we're about to leave." Said Brola, as he felt the current pick up strength and his feet slide across the slimy, slippery floor.

Not but a few seconds after he spoke, did he feel his feet leave the ground entirely, and he suddenly felt the sensation that he was dropping, very far and very fast. He drifted forward a few inches and left the deluge of sewage, and was presented with a wide open ocean several feet below him. Given the planet's intense gravity, it only took him a few seconds for him to hit the water, and it felt as if he'd jumped feet first onto concrete, he knew he felt a few bones crack, and perhaps a rib or two break as he sank several feet into the murky water. Fortunately for him, he didn't have to put much muscle power into surfacing, this time his gravity frame realized he was under water pressure, and it was kicking his legs back and forth, at such a strength and such a speed that it surfaced for him.

Now above the water line, and several meters from the downpour of raw sewage, Brola saw that they were in a brown, murky lake, and it was early morning. The city they had been fighting in could just barely be seen to the solar west, and the command post they had set up had been to the solar south, so now, as he treaded water to the bank of the lake, he had a heading to follow. With a grunt of great effort, the soaking wet, still partially covered in sewage batarian hauled himself out of the water, followed quickly by the surviving batarians. With water and sewage streaming off of him, the commander leaned back on both of his hands, gasping for breath.

Well… We made it. Thought the batarian, as he watched his men swim to shore. But we still have to get through these forests… And find our commanders, and the gods only know what kind of wildlife this planet has. As if on cue, the sounds of the forest began reaching Brola's ears through his helmet.

With a grunt, Brola pushed off from the ground and hauled himself to his feet. "Alright, men… Take five, clean your weapons and wounds, and check your gear. Just because we're out of the fire doesn't mean we've escaped the heat - we're still in enemy territory." He said, catching the attention of his men. "Fortunately for us… We've got a bargaining chip off this rock." He said, noticing someone hanging onto the shoreline and simply wading in the water. He reached forward and offered the person his hand, and helped haul the man onto dry land.

"What would that be, sir?" The batarian asked, as he pulled out his rifle and started checking it over.

"Our guns. We give these to command, a few of them might be willing to look the other way if we stole a shuttle or two." Brola said, "and if they're not… Our guns. We'll make them."

They spent much more than five minutes cleaning their weapons and scrubbing their armor as hard as they could, given their present supplies. After they all realized they could safely stall no longer, the group of eight surviving batarians gathered up their gear and moved to the south west. The forests were mostly of small, thick trees that had had their growth largely stunted by the planet's massive gravity, which lent to a very tense and claustrophobic atmosphere, as if everything around them was trying to compress around them and crush them. The group of soldiers kept a tight circle, with everyone constantly scanning the area around them. Mist began to rise from the vegetation on the ground as it heated up in the morning sun, which only served to wreck their already poor visibility, but Brola had his omni-tool set to hone in on the command center and its was the only heading they could follow with any degree of confidence.

After an hour of walking, they reached the forest's edge, and saw, in the distance, the perimeter their allies had set around the city. It was clear that there were operations being done to try and penetrate inwards, but given the sheer amount of soldiers and slave-warriors still surrounding the city, whatever command was doing wasn't working. Brola urged his men to continue onwards, and after another quarter of an hour, they made it to the perimeter and found themselves an officer by the name of Seritan.

Brola turned to his men and nodded once, "form a perimeter. Don't let anyone in until I'm done." He said, as he approached Seritan's prefab. It was early enough that the man was likely catching his paltry excuse for sleep, so no one should be in there, though Seritan was foolish enough to believe in the strength of his security: The only guards were the ones standing right outside, and one word from the higher-ranking Brola, and likely one whiff of him too, sent them running.

Entering the cube-like prefab as his own men surrounded and blocked off the entrance, Brola's suspicions were confirmed: The officer was sound asleep, with one bottle of brandy hanging limply from his hand. Brola scowled, and picked up his foot, before savagely kicking the bottle out of the officer's hand, shattering it and startling the poor excuse of an officer.

"Wake up you bastard, do you want a medal?" Brola demanded, as the officer shook his head and tried to regain his bearings.

"What?" Seritan groaned, "Commander… Dasd, is that you? I thought you were dead."

"Never mind that." Brola snatched his rifle off of his back and dropped it on the ground, along with a small data pad. "You take those to the General, you turn the tide of the war. But I want a shuttle big enough to hold ten men."

The hungover officer shook his head, "wait… What?"

"Give me a shuttle. Take those to the General."

"I can't just… Give you a shuttle, Commander." Said Seritan, "wait, what are you doing in - good lord, what is that smell?!"

"Victory." Dasd said with a straight face, as he leaned in forward, closer to Seritan. "That weapon can kill saltorians, and the datapad has instructions on how to modify all of them to do the same thing. But I will take it with me and run if you don't give me a shuttle."

"Good gods, Dasd, why do you smell?" Seritan pressed against his nasal. "And why do you need a damn shuttle so bad?"

"I can't tell you. Orders." Technically, he wasn't lying: They were his orders he was selectively obeying. "I just need it."

"What does that weapon even -" Before Seritan could even finish, Brola, in a fit of frustration, kicked the rifle up and into the air.

The commander barely managed to snatch the rifle out of the air thanks to his unfamiliarity with the planet's intense gravity, he whipped it to the side, whereupon he pulled the trigger once and blasted a boulder-sized hole in the side of the prefab, sending everything inside flying and deafening Seritan.

"It does that!" He shouted at a stunned Seritan.

Brola was given a shuttle in short order, and in less than ten minutes, the onboard VI autopilot had them burning fuel and in orbit, while the officer hopped in another shuttle and was hurtling towards the Vengeance to deliver the deadly news. It took them twenty minutes to patch up and vacuum-rate their suits, and another ten to force the VI to pilot them to dock with the crippled vessels. Another few hours to find one still capable of long-range FTL. By mid-afternoon, local time, they were in a gutted and depopulated ship, hurtling to the next system, post-haste. With the ship as penetrated as it was, there wasn't anything they could do to get their environmental controls back, but they were able to pressurize a few rooms, namely the crew's quarters, showers, and the medical area, though their efforts were improvised, requiring the entire area to get depressurized again so people could go in and out. Shift rotations, from showers, to the quarters, to the med bay, were scheduled to happen every three hours, whereupon an alarm would sound, and anyone who wasn't in their suits was too stupid to live. Brola spent a great deal of time in the showers and the med bay, scrubbing, disinfecting, and treating his wounds, and performing the more minute repairs and cleaning jobs on his armor. He vomited so much from the smell that he literally had nothing left in his stomach, but at least he was clean, his wounds weren't too badly infected, and his armor was vacuum rated once again.

Hours into their trip, Brola, sitting back in appropriated captain's chair, couldn't believe that he'd gotten out of it with only four casualties and minor to moderate wounds and infections. He counted himself incredibly lucky. As he considered the myriad ways that the Alliance would either help or hinder him, he failed to consider that there could very well have been a reason they'd been so successful: They had been allowed to be. He failed to consider the possibility of an uncounted stowaway lurking about in the ship, who had opted to take a much longer-term answer to his holy war. Instead of slaughtering everyone on sight, the man, hidden deep in the bowels of the ship, had decided to wait and see what these creatures were doing, and begin a long battle of attrition once they landed. His goal wasn't to win, but rather kill as many as he could before they killed him, and no one was more equipped to survive against impossible odds than a BattleVectorian Wraith.

Brola was shaken from his reverie by a tap on the shoulder, he turned to his left and saw one of the soldiers, who tapped on his helmet.

"Yes?" Brola asked, after switching on his radio.

"Do you think they'll let us in?" The man asked, his voice slightly garbled by the static filling the radio.

"We're flying a severely damaged warship right into Alliance territory. They won't let us in, but they won't ignore us, either. It may take time, but we will be seen." Brola said, with a shake of his head. "Fortunately, while we will all be taken into custody, according to their laws, I will be the only one to face any punishment or judgement for our crimes. You all were following orders."

The soldier nodded, silently glad that all he was facing was some jail time. No soldier was a stranger to a little lockup. "Thank you, sir."

"Think not. Now, how far are we?"

"One second… " The soldier checked his omni-tool, "The warp engine was too damaged to get online, so we're relying on conventional FTL. Fortunately, there's a relay in the next system. It'll get is close enough… So our ETA to the Arcturus Stream is… Twenty four hours, give or take."

A/N:

Only been three days since McGraw's big nap, and already we've got a big ass war going on, and it's preparing to spread.
Four days left in the week without shadows, what on earth will happen next?

Also, I performed the content/formatting edits at a late hour and after a long day at my shiny new job, so if there are any glaring mistakes, point them out and I'll get to work.

Finally, this one took a bit more time than usual because I had to redraft it from scratch. The previous one just plain wasn't up to par, I didn't like the way it turned out, and it tested the suspension of disbelief to the breaking point more than once.
At least this one helped introduce a rather important concept, for later on down the line.

'Till next time!

-PFB